


Let's Dance To Joy Division

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Harry/Draco - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let the love tear us apart, I've found a cure for a broken heart...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Dance To Joy Division

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, okay, this was supposed to be a short little PWP for Draco's 29th birthday on June 5. Hah. Much love to supergrover24 for her beta. *hearts Jodie* Title shamelessly stolen from The Wombats. Not that Draco would have any clue who they are. Or Joy Division for that matter. :D Warning for candle play and clubbing.

_Let the love tear us apart, I've found a cure for a broken heart…  
\--Let's Dance To Joy Division, The Wombats_

"Darling, it's really not the end of the world," Pansy says as she pours another glass of wine and hands it to me. She frowns at the empty bottle, then leans over the arm of the sofa to set it on the side table next to the one we've already drained before curling back into the green brocade cushions, her bare feet tucked beneath her. Her toenails are painted an outlandishly glittery dark purple that only Pansy can pull off. The WWN's on somewhere in the background; the not incredibly soothing strains of the London Wizarding Philharmonic's rendition of Travenham's _Fifteen Concertos for the Glockenspiel and Tárogató_ waft through the flat. "I rather enjoyed my last birthday."

"Only because you spent the entirety of it with your legs wrapped around Terry Boot's head," Blaise drawls. He takes a drag from the cigarette in his hand and blows a thin stream of smoke towards her, all while sprawled (artfully, of course, God forbid Blaise arrange himself in any other way even in the privacy of our flat) across his favourite spot in our sitting room, the wide leather club chair that he'd nicked from the Athenaeum during a late-night piss-up a few years back for which I take absolutely no responsibility, thank you very much. It'd taken all of Father's not inconsiderable influence with the wizarding governors to keep us from being banned for life, and even at that Blaise had refused to give up his chair. I don't think Father's ever quite forgiven him that indignity.

I sigh and twist the stem of my wineglass between my fingertips, watching the wine swirl up the sides. Not even the utterly brilliant Viognier Mother had slipped me Sunday last from Father's private stash in the cellars is enough to cheer me. _I'm_ not spending my birthday with any part of me wrapped around anyone else's anatomy. How terribly depressing.

Pansy tilts her head. Her dark hair brushes one cheek; it gleams in the light from the lamp next to her. She smiles. "Dear Boot. He did help. More than once that night, as I recall."

I scowl at her. We _all_ recall, thanks to the noises the both of them made all bloody night. To this day Blaise swears she deliberately used a Sonorous instead of a silencing charm.

Pansy leans over and pats my arm. "Still. There's no need for being so glum. Twenty-nine's the new nineteen, they say."

"_They,_" I mutter into my wineglass, "are utter idiots."

"Oh, do cheer up." Pansy rolls her eyes. Her sympathy with my sulks only extends so far. "You'll end up with wrinkles worse than Professor Snape's if you keep glowering like that."

My hand flies to my forehead in horror. The skin's still smooth, thank God. For now, at least, although I'm all too aware of the backwards march my hair is taking. Damn Grandfather Cygnus and his bald pate. "Today," I moan, slumping against the arm of my chair, wine splashing onto my fingers, "is the _end of my youth,_ Pans. It all goes downhill from here. I found three hairs on my pillow this morning. Three! The next thing you know I'll be sporting Grandfather Abraxas' liver spots." I shudder.

Blaise snorts. "You're not eighty yet, Draco."

I give him a baleful glare over the rim of my glass. "Just wait until August and you realise you've reached the sunset of your glory days."

"Sunset my arse." Blaise stretches lazily, his untucked white shirt riding up to expose a dark swathe of chiseled stomach. Bastard. No one should be allowed to be that ridiculously attractive in such a state of dishabille. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't fucked him yet, given Blaise's penchant for taking anything that walks past into his bed. Pansy's already been there at least twice that I know of. Probably more. Other than Pansy's birthday exploits, neither of them has wanted to rub their sexual adventures in my face all that much lately. I'm a rather vicious bastard after my heart's broken, it seems. Or at least I am when I'm not pathetically depressed. To be honest, I've no idea why I haven't run the both of them off yet.

"I'm think I'm bored," Pansy says suddenly, setting her glass down.

We both look at her in alarm. Pansy's boredom almost always leads to random chaos, destruction of public edifices, or, even worse, our showing up pissed out of our minds on Greg's doorstep, much to the consternation of his far too staid (_German_, Pansy always sniffs haughtily) wife. Let's not even mention the annoyed, piercing wails of their son, woken by Pansy pounding on the door at half three in the morning, which does nothing to endear my two raucously drunken flatmates to an already sleep-deprived Greg, to say the least. Still. He's been one of my best friends for twenty years now and that counts for something in this wretched world of ours.

Leave it to Greg to be the first one of us to settle down, as Mother oh so pointedly remarks to me every Sunday over dinner at the Manor before she rattles off the names of any and all eligible young women, as if I'd have any interest and she damn well knows that. I have to bite my tongue every time to keep from reminding her I _had_ been in a relationship, for three bloody years at least, and look at how _that_ had ended. A rain of fire and brimstone in Biblical proportions would have been far preferable to the unbearable onslaught of Rita bloody fucking Skeeter I'd been forced to endure for the past eight months.

I don't bring that up, of course. Mother prefers to think of those three years as an aberration, rather than the norm—now that distasteful fascination's out of my system I can go back to being the dutiful Malfoy heir, she thinks, Skeeter's frequent snide asides about my romantic entanglements (or, rather, current lack thereof) on page six of the Prophet be damned—and Father refuses to even acknowledge it at all now that he can't use my convenient "friendship" to his advantage.

There are moments when I want nothing more than to stand up just after the elves have cleared the mains at one of my parents' ridiculously dull dinner parties with their ridiculously dull friends—one or more of whose simpering daughters has been invited in the completely vain hope that she'll catch my eye—and scream at my parents _are you blind or just deliberately obtuse because even the bloody_ Prophet_ knows I'm gay, gay, gay, buggering, cocksucking, arselicking, on my knees with a prick up my bum, wouldn't know what to do with a fanny if it slapped me in the face gay,_, but Pansy (and please, if I were to even consider sleeping with a woman—which I _wouldn't_, thanks every so muchly—it'd be her, not one of those boring milquetoasts Mother keeps throwing at me), dear, droll Pansy insists that would be terribly plebian, and thus far beneath me. Amusing, without doubt, and certain to inflame the gossip circuit for absolutely ages, which has a definite appeal, but still, plebian. Not to mention it'd humiliate my mother, and while I could give a rat's arse about my father's pride, I suppose she's a point about Mother. I'd never do that to her. Not after everything she's been through already.

"I'm bored," Pansy says again, and this time she slides to the edge of the sofa. "We should _do_ something."

"We are." Blaise Summons another bottle of wine from the kitchen. "I for one can think of no better way to celebrate the close of Draco's latest annus horribilis than to get roaringly pissed on his bastard father's wine."

I drain my glass and lift it. "Hear, hear."

Pansy wrinkles her nose. "I think he'd do better getting shagged." She twists a lock of black hair around one finger. "How long has it been, Draco?"

"Shut it," I say tightly, and I set my wineglass down with a clink of crystal against the mahogany of the side table. She knows. They both do. Blaise looks away.

"Eight months, one week and three days," Pansy says quietly. "And you won't even go to dinner with anyone else, much less bring anyone home for a tumble. That's not healthy, darling. You know celibacy just makes you pasty." She lays her hand over mine. "And anyway, it's not going to do you any good at all to sit around here obsessing over him."

I pull my hand away. "I'm not obsessing."

They're both silent, just looking at me. Blaise raises one eyebrow, and for that one moment, I hate him.

All right. Fine. So I obsess over my ex. Who doesn't? "It was three _years,_" I say, and, really, I do hate the plaintive whine in my voice.

"Draco," Pansy says gently. "It's time."

I shake my head. "I'm not ready."

She stands up and holds out her hand. I sigh.

"Blaise?" I turn to him, eyes pleading, but he shrugs and stubs out his cigarette. He flicks it over his shoulder into the hearth.

"She has a point," he says. "For once."

Pansy beams at him, then looks at me. "And I know exactly what we'll do." Her smile is blinding. I'm terrified.

"I despise you both," I say, but I let Pansy pull me to my feet. I only sway slightly, much to my dismay. I grab the bottle of wine from Blaise and lift it to my mouth.

Whatever Pansy's planned is going to require a lot more alcohol in my system, I'm certain.

***

I'm not wrong.

"A Muggle club? Have you lost your mind?" I stare at her.

"No," she says calmly, rummaging through Blaise's wardrobe. "Muggles are horribly easy when they get pissed, and darling, I love you, you know I do, but with all your—" She waves a hand vaguely in the air. "—issues at the moment, I think right now _easy_ would be better for you."

"I don't have _issues_," I say petulantly. Blaise harrumphs behind me; I ignore him.

Pansy peers at me from around the wardrobe door. "Oh, Draco," she murmurs in that voice that means I've said something utterly stupid. "Of course you do." She throws a silk shirt at me. It's black and fitted and gossamer thin.

I hold it up, looking at Blaise through it. "Really?" I ask him, and he smirks, leaning against one of the bedposts.

"You'd be surprised," he says. "That shirt bagged me a member of the Danish royal family." He twists the neck of the wine bottle between his fingers before lifting it to his mouth. "She could do the most amazing things with her tongue. For a Muggle, at least."

I study the shirt. The jet buttons glitter up at me. "Muggles, honestly, you two—"

Pansy steps up into the wardrobe, pushing aside a rack of trousers. "It's not as if we're marrying them, Draco." Her voice is muffled. "They're perfectly acceptable for a quick fuck or two."

I can feel my mouth purse; I try to stop it before Blaise notices. The last thing I want to listen to is one of his endless lectures about the unnaturalness of monogamy.

At one point I would have agreed with him.

I have no idea how I ended up the prude among us. It's not what anyone would have anticipated ten years ago. I like sex. I like sex _a lot._ After the war, when no one would even consider hiring a Slytherin, much less one with family ties to the Death Eaters, Blaise and I spent two years wandering the Continent, spending as many nights as we could in as many different beds as was possible. We'd even whored ourselves out for a month, to see what it was like as much as to fill our thinning wallets. It'd been brilliant.

That was all before Harry, though.

_Harry._ Even thinking his name makes me ache. I loved him, the bastard. I'd given everything up for him. He hadn't even had to ask. That's the curse of the Malfoys, you see. We're arrogant, self-centred bastards, but when we fall…well. Just look at the way my father looks at my mother, even after all these years. And he's the most self-servicing arsehole in the whole damned country, I'd say.

I'm done with love now. Harry broke me of that when I found him in bed with Zacharias sodding Smith. Bloody hysterical, that was. Everyone had expected _me_ not to be able to keep my prick in my pants. Of course, they'd all assumed it was my fault, that I'd done something to force Harry into such a position. Noble Gryffindor that he is, he could _never_ have stooped so low as to cheat, even on a Slytherin, not without provocation. Idiots. God forbid they discover their Golden Boy has feet of clay.

"Wine," I say, tightly, and Blaise hands me the bottle. I take a long swig, then wipe the back of my hand over my mouth before giving it back to him. I look over at Pansy. She raises both eyebrows, a disturbingly small pair of jeans dangling from her fingers. With a sigh, I nod and start unbuttoning my shirt. "All right. But if I'm going to do this, you'd damn well better find me someone appropriately gorgeous to shag."

Pansy smiles at me and Summons her makeup bag from the bath. "Only the best for you, darling. I promise."

I'm not exactly comforted.

***

The club is loud and crowded, one of those purposely rundown gay warehouses tucked away in a Chelsea alley that's become trendy with the straight girls and, on occasion, their adventurous boyfriends. It's hot for June, almost miserably so, and clothes are being stripped off, shirts tied around waists or just left draped over banisters and chair backs. Even I've unbuttoned the top few buttons of mine, much to Blaise's approval. I'm not usually one to show skin in public. Too many scars to explain.

Music pounds through the room, nearly drowning out conversation. A flick of Pansy's wand mutes it enough that we're no longer forced to shout ourselves hoarse over the thudding beat, and while Blaise—ever in need of alcohol—pushes his way through to the bar, Pansy and I watch the masses from an upper-level table, raised enough from the pit of gyrating bodies to enable us a good view.

Pansy lights up a fag and I eye her. "There's a smoking ban, you realise," I say, and she shrugs and casts a Notice-Me-Not charm on the cigarette before settling in her chair, one arm draped over the back, her already minuscule skirt hiking further up her pale thigh as she crosses one leg over the other. Her shoe dangles from her toes, the stiletto bouncing in the air.

She blows smoke towards me. "See anyone interesting yet?"

I look out over the mass of sweat-covered poofs, their skin gleaming under the strobe lights. I drag my tongue across my bottom lip. It tastes of the strawberry gloss Pansy had insisted I wear—_to make your mouth fuckable, darling,_ she'd said, coming at me with a determined look in her eye and a pot of pink lip colour in her hand. After all these years, I knew better than to resist. I was less likely to end up walking out of the house with kohl around my eyes if I gave in to the small things.

Pansy taps her cig against her heel. Ash drifts to the floor. "Well?" Patience isn't exactly one of her virtues.

"No." I take the cigarette from her and lift it to my mouth. My hands sparkle in the light. Pansy again, of course. She'd rubbed the lotion on my hands, muttering something incomprehensible about vampires at dusk. I inhale. The unfiltered tobacco's bitter against my tongue. I don't care. After wine, nicotine is the nectar of the bloody gods, and if I can be frank, it's almost as good as sex. Almost, I said. I've smoked a rather lot of cigs the past eight months, after all.

"Pity." Pansy watches me for a moment. "Draco—"

"I'll find one, Pans." I scan the crowd again. My eyes catch on the curve of a dark cheek, and I lean forward. "Looks like Blaise has got himself distracted."

Pansy follows my gaze. Blaise is moving away from the bar, being pulled into the crush of dancers by a charmingly blue-haired twink. He glances over at us, as if he could feel Pansy's death glare, which wouldn't surprise me in the least, and give us both the apologetic half-smile he thinks is so very charming. (As if that will let him off the hook, the idiot. He knows better.) Pansy swears under her breath and stands. "One day, Draco, mark my words, I'm going to smother that bastard in his sleep."

I'm sure she will. Not that I'd ever say it to her (or to him for that matter), but I've suspected for years that Pansy's arse over tit for Blaise. She's just too smart to ever let him know.

"You do that, love," I say encouragingly, taking another drag off the cigarette. Frankly, I think it'd do Blaise good to wake up with a pillow over his face once every so often. Then again, knowing him he'd just discover he got off on suffocation, and I'd walk into his room a week later to find him hanging from the bedpost, cock in his hand. Really. I'd rather not. I know far too much about Blaise's masturbatory habits as it is. "I support you fully in your homicidal plans. As long as there's no wanking involved."

She blinks down at me. "I'm not even going to ask." A sharp fingernail prods my chest. "You. Stay here. I need some fucking wine."

I don't argue with her. I've no intention of moving, to be honest. Instead, I stretch out in my chair, one foot propped on the railing separating the seating area from the unwashed masses.

Muggles are curious creatures, I've found. When I was a young child, I was terrified of them, certain they meant to slaughter my parents and eat me the way my elf-nurse warned me they would if I wasn't a good boy. I must admit Mellie's threats were, in their own manner, quite effective. At five, I was an absolute angel compared to Vince and Greg. Of course, I woke up screaming every other night, certain that a Muggle was under my bed with a knife and a cook pot. And yet, as I said, an angel. Such a calming influence on the other boys, Mrs Goyle used to say.

I watch them now, these Muggles, caught in their mating dance. I still can't quite see them as equals, despite all of Harry's lectures—and there were oh, Christ, so damn many of those over the years. Even now, they seem strange to me, alien even, as I sit here above them. I can see Blaise in their midst, proud and tall, drawing them to him like flies to honey. Life is easy for Blaise in so many ways. Beautiful, mysterious, sexy as hell…he could have anything or anyone he wants, but I know he's as unhappy as I am, no matter his protests to the contrary.

We're all unhappy, the three of us, caught by our pasts and by those of our families. Sometimes I wonder if it will ever change. I'd thought it had for me. With Harry.

My hand shakes as I stub the cigarette out on the tabletop.

I still miss him, and I hate that.

A flick of my wand banishes the cigarette. I wonder idly where it goes. I can't help but imagine some huge rubbish heap in the sky, filled with the refuse of a millennium of wizards. Perhaps that's the heaven the vicar droned on about when I was younger and Grandmother was alive to insist I be dragged to church every bloody Sunday. Instead of streets of gold, there'd be streets of half-smoked fags. How disappointed he'd be.

And then I freeze.

I'd recognise that shock of black hair anywhere, even before he turns his head towards me, the lights glinting off his glasses. Our eyes meet, and I can barely breathe. He looks out of place among the half-naked crowd, his hands shoved in the pockets of his faded jeans, white t-shirt bright beneath his untucked navy shirt.

I'd bought him that shirt in a shop in Paris two years ago.

The crowd swallows him up again, and I think I must have been hallucinating. Too much wine, too much heat. Too much something. I've obviously lost my mind. Blaise has been warning me for weeks now a breakdown was coming. I'd assumed he'd meant himself.

Pansy sets two bottles of wine on the table and drops into her chair with a thump. Her hair catches on her damp cheek and she brushes it away, with an annoyed frown and a jangle of dangling silver earrings. I cast a cooling charm on us both. It won't last long, but it's a welcome swirl of chilling breeze across my skin. Pansy gives me a grateful smile.

"Open it," she says, pushing a bottle towards me as she leans back in her seat, fanning herself. She's stripped off her tiny cardigan, her skin pale against her lacy black camisole. Pity Blaise isn't here to appreciate her tits.

I loosen the cork and pour us both a glass, somehow managing to hide the shaking of my hands. The wine's decent enough—not Manor quality by any extent, but it's drinkable, and that's all I give a damn about at the moment. I don't bother to sip, draining the glass in one gulp. When I lower it, Pansy's staring at me as if I've lost my mind. Perhaps I have.

"Draco," she starts, but I shake my head and pour another glass. She falls silent and looks back out over the crowd.

The music shifts, the throbbing beat resettling into another bouncing rhythm, the barely discernible singing changing from garbled English to muffled French. Two men climb onto the bar, pressed against each other as they dance together, their hands roaming over bare chests, brushing against arses tightly wrapped in denim.

I'm halfway through my wine when I hear him say, "Hi, Pansy." I nearly drop my glass, only to catch it at the last moment. A few drops of wine splash out over the rim, rolling across my knuckles.

Harry's standing next to us, shifting from foot to foot nervously. He doesn't look at me; instead he keeps his gaze fixed on Pansy. He's wearing those ridiculous trainers of his, navy canvas with white laces, and I'd _hated_ stumbling across those bloody things in our flat. He'd never put them in the wardrobe properly.

I wait for Pansy to send him packing, but she just stretches and, with her wineglass, waves him into Blaise's empty seat. "Potter," she says. I give her a horrified glare. She just smiles at me, a feline curve of lips and sharp teeth, and it's then that I realise I've been betrayed.

"You cunt," I say, and Pansy rolls her eyes above her glass.

"I think we've established that yes, I do have one," she says drily. She glances at Harry. "Excuse him. He's still deathly afraid of girl bits."

Harry smiles faintly and looks at me then. "Hey."

"Fuck off and die," I snap.

To my annoyance, he doesn't flinch. Instead, he reaches for the bottle of wine. "May I?" he asks politely.

"No," I say, at the same time Pansy nods. She smacks my arm. Hard. I rub it and glare at her. Bitch. That's going to bruise.

"Help yourself," she says to Harry, ignoring me.

Harry pours a glass and drinks half of it before he looks back over at me. He sets his glass down and rubs his palms over his thighs. "Happy birthday," he says finally.

My only response is a two-fingered one.

Pansy looks between us. "Oh, for God's sake," she says in disgust. "The two of you are pathetic."

"_I_," I say tightly, "am not the arsehole who cheated on his boyfriend and then had the _gall_ to show up on his birthday."

"Pansy invited me." Harry winces as the pointed toe of Pansy's shoe connects with his shin. "Well, you did."

"That's supposed to be left unsaid, Potter." Pansy curls her lip in disgust. "Honestly. Gryffindors." She points a purple fingernail at me. "And don't you start. You're just as bad. You've been miserable for months."

My mouth thins. "I have not."

That earns me a sharp slap on the back of the head. Pansy frowns at me. "Stop it." She looks at Harry. "Talk to him. _Now._"

Harry gives Pansy a nervous look. I don't blame him. There are moments she scares the hell out of me too. He turns back to me, twisting his glass between his palms. "I miss you," he says quietly.

My stomach lurches. I laugh, sharp and bitter, and beside me, Pansy winces into her wineglass. "Oh, fuck you." I don't believe him. I don't _want_ to believe him.

Harry just looks at me. There are spots and smudges on his glasses. The sweeping lights catch them. "Are you wearing lip gloss?" he asks suddenly, and that throws me off.

"Yes." I wave a hand towards Pansy. "She insisted."

"Oh." Harry takes a sip of his wine. "It's..." He runs a thumb over the rim of the glass, licks his bottom lip. He doesn't take his eyes off me. "It's hot."

Pansy looks smug. "I told you," she says, and I glare at her, despite the thrill that runs through me at Harry's words. I'm too damned easy, really.

"Why are you here?" I ask Harry abruptly. "Go home to your stupid Zacharias—"

"I'm not with him." Harry runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "Christ. How many times do I have to tell you—"

I bare my teeth at him. "The _Prophet_ has pictures of you coming out of his flat, Harry. I've seen them. The whole bloody wizarding world's seen them—"

"Jesus, Draco!" Harry slams his hand against the table, rattling the glasses. Pansy calmly catches one before it topples. He looks away. His cheeks are flushed. "It's not what you think."

"Of course not." I hold my hand out, and Pansy digs in her bag, pulling out another cigarette and dropping it into my palm. I light it, not even bothering with a charm. Fuck the Muggles.

Harry leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped. He rubs his thumb over a knuckle. His cuticle is torn; he's in desperate need of a manicure. Obviously Smith has no concept of good grooming nor of how to coax Harry into it. Idiot. It'd taken me a year to talk him into coming to the spa down Knockturn with me. It wasn't manly, he'd said. The Weasel would mock him. Six months later he had Granger booking appointments with us with the Weasel sitting uncomfortably in the waiting room, leafing through Sophie-Marie's copies of the _Quibbler_.

"I just want to talk to you," Harry says quietly.

Ash drops off the end of my cigarette. I take a drag off it, exhaling. A bouncer's wending his way through the crowd, eyes fixed on me. "And I'd rather see you dead." We all know I don't mean it. I look away.

The three of us sit silent for a moment, then I stand, pushing back my chair as the bouncer starts up the stairs. "I'm not going to do this," I say as calmly as I can. I reach for the unopened bottle of wine. "For all I care, the both of you can fuck off at the moment."

"Draco." Pansy catches my hand. I pull away.

"Don't," I say roughly. I can't believe she's done this to me. On my fucking birthday, of all days.

I don't bother looking back as I walk away.

When I pass the bouncer, I hand him my cigarette without a word.

He lets me pass.

***

I've drunk half the bottle of wine before I find Blaise, tucked away in a dark booth in the corner with his hand down some twink's trousers. I don't bother with politeness; instead I just fling myself into the chair next to them and lift the bottle to my lips again. "I want to go home," I say, the glass clinking against my teeth, and Blaise lifts his head from the twink's neck and blinks lazily at me.

"What?"

The twink makes an annoyed noise and tries to drag Blaise's head back to his throat. I snap my fingers, irritated, and Blaise looks back at me.

"Did you know about Harry?" I ask. I take another swig of wine, licking around the inside of the opening to catch the stray drops as I lower the bottle.

Blaise just raises an eyebrow coolly. Too coolly. "What about Potter?"

I curl my lip. As if he doesn't know. "Pansy arranged for him to stop by tonight."

Blaise sits up. His shirt's askew; he straightens it. The twink is forgotten. "Did she?" He smirks. "The girl always has liked to live dangerously."

"She's begging for a Cruciatus." At Blaise's frown, I sigh. "Or at least a week's silent treatment." I look back at the twink. "Get him out of here."

With a mournful glance towards me that I ignore, Blaise turns to the boy. "Out you go then."

"But—" The twink glares spitefully at me.

"You heard him," I say, bored.

Blaise smacks the boy's arse as he crawls over him on his way back to the dance floor. "Find me later," he murmurs, his fingers dark against the twink's pale cheek, and the boy tosses his hair out of his eyes and smiles.

I pass over the bottle of wine. "A bit young, don't you think?" If the boy's even reached his majority, I'll eat my wand.

"_I'm_ not twenty-nine yet," Blaise says into the bottle. "And it's not a school night." I resist the urge to knock his arm. I need the sweet succor of wine too much to spill it. Now tell me _that's_ not pathetic. Blaise looks over at me. "So. Potter."

"Honestly, I don't know what the fuck she was thinking." I take the bottle back and lift it to my mouth. The wine's sweetly bitter and cool. "He's an arse."

Blaise just _hmmm_s and drums his fingers against the table.

I frown at him and set the wine bottle down with a thump. "What?"

"He came tonight," Blaise says. "He didn't have to."

"So?" My mouth twists to one side. "Pansy put him up to it." I tap a thumbnail against the bottle, scraping the corner of the label. "She wants me to fuck him, you know," I say darkly, brows drawing together.

Blaise leans back in his chair and crosses his ankle over one knee. "It's not like you haven't before."

"Judas." My head's muzzy from wine. I should be thinking more clearly, I know. It's dangerous not to be sober when either of my friends are up to Machiavellian deviousness—and I'm quite certain, Blaise's protests to the contrary, that they're both involved in this bit of treachery. "How much did he pay you?"

"Not a Knut." Blaise smiles. The lights from the dance floor brush across his face before arcing over the crowd. "Pansy, on the other hand…" At my bared teeth, he touches my hand. "She's been worried about you." He gives me an even look. "Eight months, Draco. This isn't like you. It's never been like you."

I pull my hand away. My throat closes, aches. "I don't want to talk about it," I say finally, and Blaise hesitates, then nods.

He stands up. "Then dance with me," he says, palm stretched out to me. "He's watching you. Make him think you don't give a damn, even if you do."

My eyes drift towards the upper level of tables. Harry's still sitting with Pansy, her head tilted towards him as she says something. It's me he's looking at though. I can feel his gaze all the way across the room.

I shiver.

Blaise watches me, a small smile curving his thin lips. I curl my fingers around his. He pulls me to my feet; I take one last swig of wine from the bottle and set it aside. "All right then," I say, wiping my thumb over the corners of my mouth.

We disappear into the press of the crowd.

***

"So why do you do everything Pansy asks you to?" My hands rest lightly on Blaise's hips, keeping my balance as we dance—or grind together, rather, as nothing more graceful can be attempted in this crowd. I can feel Blaise's cock against my hip, and I realise too late that I am far too bloody pissed to be in this position.

Blaise's laugh is a warm huff against my cheek that sends a spike of want through my body. My prick swells, pressing uncomfortably against the denim of my jeans. How the Muggles wear these damned things I'll never know. I know he can feel it; he pulls me closer, his fingers twisting in my belt loops. "I don't do _everything_ she wants," he murmurs against my ear.

I should pull away. Instead I slide my hands up Blaise's side, over his shoulders, lacing my fingers in his hair as I rock my hips against his. I wonder if Harry's watching.

"Do you fancy her?" I ask. Blaise is breathing heavily in my ear. His mouth brushes my jaw. I close my eyes and pretend he's Harry. For a moment it works.

Blaise's fingers rub tiny circles into the small of my back. "Sometimes." He turns his head, presses his mouth against my hair. His thigh slides between mine; my breath catches.

_Bad idea,_ one part of my alcohol-soaked brain is screaming. _Pansy is going to kill—_

It's drowned out by the pleasant throb in my cock. I haven't done this in months, and it feels so fucking _good._ I shift; Blaise groans. His fingers press into my skin. When his mouth brushes across mine, I don't pull away.

Until Blaise jerks back, his eyes wide.

"Pansy wants to see you," Harry growls, the collar of Blaise's shirt fisted in one hand. Blaise stumbles as Harry shoves him aside, despite the fact that he has at least five inches height on Harry. As much as I hate it, a thrill runs through me. I can almost feel the crackle of Harry's magic. "Now."

"Don't manhandle me, Potter," Blaise sneers, smoothing his shirt.

Harry's jaw tightens. I can see the muscle in his cheek twitch. "Bugger off, Zabini," he says softly, a dangerous gleam in his eye. He leans forward, tense and taut; his fists clench at his sides.

Blaise glances at me. I'm half-certain he winks, but that has to just be the wine. Blaise would never be so gauche. He shrugs. "I need a smoke, anyway."

I glare at Harry as Blaise pushes through the dancers writhing around us. "What do you think you're doing?"

"If anyone dances with you tonight," Harry says evenly, "it's going to be me."

"And what makes you think I'd even want to?" I toss my hair; a strand catches on my mouth. Fucking stupid lip gloss.

Harry brushes the hair back, tucking it behind my ear. His calloused fingertips are light against my skin. "You want to," he says.

I hate him. I do. But I let his hands settle on my waist. My arms dangle at my sides. Harry just smiles and steps closer. I can smell wine on his breath.

He moves against me, barely, but my skin feels as if it's on fire. "I hate you," I say. My voice is horrifyingly breathless.

"I know." Harry's thumb slips under the waistband of my jeans. "Didn't think I'd ever see you in a pair of these."

I catch his elbow with one hand—to keep my balance, I lie to myself. "They're Blaise's."

Harry tenses. "Are you and he—"

For a moment, I think of saying yes. It would end this once and for all. Harry's thumb strokes my hipbone, rubbing the silk of my shirt across it. "No," I say finally. "Pansy forced them on me." I hesitate, then drape my arm over Harry's shoulder. It moves me almost imperceptibly closer to him. "She must have thought you'd like them."

"I do." Harry's other hand catches mine, lifting it to his mouth. He kisses one knuckle.

"Stop it," I snap, jerking my hand away. It's too intimate, that.

Harry just looks at me for a moment. We're standing still amidst the writhing bodies. The stench of sweat and metallic air cooled by a Muggle machine wafts across us. Music pounds in my ears, a steady, primal throb that seeps into my bones.

I feel as if we're the only two in the universe.

He touches my cheek, drags his thumb across my skin, wiping away a bead of sweat. "You're glittery," he says with a faint smile. "Pansy again?"

"The woman's a complete maniac." I can't take my eyes off him. His hair hangs over the collar of his shirt, curls beneath the curve of his earlobe. He cups my cheek in his palm, and I can't stop the shiver that wracks me. "Never let her come near you with a makeup brush. You're likely to come out looking worse than a hag on a Knockturn corner."

"I rather think I like you tarted up," Harry says just before he kisses me.

His mouth is soft, warm. Everything I remembered it being.

"I hate you, Harry," I say again. His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, and I grab his arm, fingers twisting in his shirt. "I really—" I press my lips against his; he groans as I open my mouth to him. His glasses dig into my cheek. "Really—" Harry sucks at my tongue, and I thrust back, dragging my teeth over his tongue. He tastes like wine and pear drops. "Really hate you."

Harry just slides behind me, his mouth kissing lightly across the slope of my jaw. When he pulls me against him, I groan. Even through the denim, I can feel his prick pressing against my arse.

"How much do you hate me?" he asks. His breath gusts against the back of my ear. It takes everything I have to suppress my shudder.

"I despise you." I lean back against him, my head falling onto his shoulder. My hair catches on his jaw. He needs to shave. "Loathe you."

Harry's hand curls around my throat, thumb stroking across my skin. I know he can feel the staccato thump of my pulse. I don't care. I swallow beneath his palm.

"I was a fucking idiot." He presses his mouth to my temple, drags his fingers down my chest, making my skin burn beneath them. He stops just above the buckle of my belt, his hand heavy and solid there. My cock aches.

"Yes." I turn my head. His mouth brushes the cheek beneath my eye before he pulls back, resting his forehead against mine. I'm unsettled. Uncertain. "You were. Are."

Harry breathes out, a ragged puff, and my hand settles lightly over his. "Draco," he says.

"Don't think I've forgiven you," I murmur, and I push his hand down just enough.

With a soft groan, Harry slips his fingers into my jeans, pressing the waistband down, and hooks his thumb over my belt. His fingertips work past the elastic of my pants. I reach back, slide my arm around Harry's neck, pulling him into a rough, desperate kiss.

I've missed this, missed his hands on me, his lips moving across mine. I'm angry still—so fucking angry—but I'm pissed enough not to care. I just want him to touch me, Christ, and when his fingers brush against the head of my prick, I gasp against his mouth. Harry chuckles.

"Shut it," I say, and I grind my arse against his hips. Harry moans, and his fingers slip across my cock. I turn my head, press my open mouth to the corner of his jaw. I'm suddenly aware of the people around us, watching, their dancing slowing, and stopping as Harry bites my throat, his hand curling around my prick, barely able to move against the confining denim. "Harry."

He doesn't answer; instead he slips his other hand over my chest, fingers working at the buttons. My head drops back against his shoulder when his palm slips beneath the silk, warm against my skin. He fists my cock, presses the head against the zip of my jeans.

"Harry," I say again, louder. One of the Muggles is staring at me. Harry lifts his head, his eyes glazed, his glasses askew. I bite his earlobe and press against his hand. This calls for words of one syllable and no more. "Take me home and fuck me."

He blinks slowly, just as the Muggle reaches out to touch my arm. With a growl, Harry knocks his hand away, jaw thrust out. The Muggle's face twists. He lurches forward. Harry pulls his hand from my jeans, and his fists clench. My prick protests at the sudden abandonment.

I put my hand on his arm before he steps towards the drunken fool. "Don't." Harry looks back at me, mouth mulishly tight. I know that expression all too well from our school days.

"For Christ's sake, don't be an imbecile," I snap. I can't tell if I'm furious enough to deck him or if I'm ready to throw him on the floor and shag him right here in front of everyone. A muscle in Harry's cheek twitches and all I can think about is running my tongue over it, and when he turns those glittering eyes on me…Merlin's tits. Nothing turns me on like an angry Harry.

Oh, fuck it all. Statute of Secrecy be damned; Blaise and Pansy can deal with the aftermath. They bloody well deserve it tonight.

I tighten my grip on Harry's arm and Apparate.

***

"Must you always be such a Neanderthal?" I ask, annoyed and still breathless from Apparation. Harry pushes me up against the door of my flat. My cock throbs. I want these fucking jeans off. _Now._ "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you realise."

"He _touched_ you," he says, and I shiver at the vibration of his lips against my skin. He nips at my jaw. My fingers twist in his hair, and his mouth drags up the side of my cheek, stopping at my temple. The doorknob digs into the small of my back. I wonder what our neighbour across the hall must be thinking. Or if he even cares. Usually it's Blaise in this position; he must be used to it by now.

Harry shifts against me. "Open the fucking door." I groan. I loathe being ordered about, but there's something about Harry's demanding tone that just makes me want to wrap my legs around his waist and grind up against him until he comes. Somehow, I think this realisation should be more disturbing to me than it is.

It takes me a moment to push through the wards. I'm not at my best, magically speaking; I'm fairly certain the majority of my mental processes are focused in the general area of my prick right now. I reach behind me, groping for the knob as Harry kisses me again, his tongue sliding over mine. My toes curl in my loafers, and I groan. "Harry," I whisper against the corner of his mouth.

The door finally flies open and we stumble forward into the flat, hitting the floor two seconds later. I pull Harry over on top of me; he kicks the door shut. I can feel the knots of the Aubusson's fringe pressing into my shoulder blade. "Lumos," I say. The lamps on the side tables light, sending flickering shadows across the floor.

"Hey." Harry smiles down at me. I can hear the soft thump of his trainers hitting the floor as he toes them off, shifting over me. His hair hangs forward, catches on the rims of his glasses. His mouth is pinkly swollen and wet, his bottom lip chapped at the corner, most likely from chewing on it when he's lost in thought.

I brush one finger against it. He catches the tip with his sharp, white teeth. The bite almost hurts. "You're a bastard," I murmur, and he licks across my fingernail. I pull his glasses off and toss them aside. They skitter across the floor, disappearing beneath the sofa. Neither of us really cares. I'll Summon them later. Perhaps when I'm ready to send him packing.

He's hard against my hip, heavy and hot. I know he wants me. Harry's always wanted me, even when we were younger. Sometimes I wonder if my school days would have been a hell of a lot less angst-ridden if we'd just given in and shagged the fuck out of each other back then.

Harry smoothes one hand up my chest. He shifts his hips, pressing down against my cock, and I hiss and spread my thighs wider. He settles between them. His eyes are so fucking _green._

"I have a bedroom, you know," I say between kisses. Harry doesn't bother to answer; he doesn't need to. He just catches my mouth again, his fingers working at the buttons of my shirt until he pushes it aside, and when his thumbnail scrapes across my nipple, I moan and grab his hips, arching up against him. My hands slip beneath the untucked tail of his shirt, pushing it and the t-shirt beneath it up enough for me to feel the skin of his back, soft and warm beneath my palms.

We kiss desperately, all tongues and teeth, and then Harry pulls back, rising up onto his knees over me as he jerks at his shirt. I grab at the dark cotton, eager to feel him against me. Three buttons fly off; Harry swears and pulls it and the t-shirt over his head.

In the faint lamplight, his skin gleams golden down to the waistband of his jeans where it begins to pale slightly. His nipples are brown and hard and when I touch them, he gasps. I sit up, my legs still spread on either side of Harry's knees, and I lick one nipple. It's salty-sweet against my tongue, the skin rough and pebbled. I can feel the steady thud of Harry's heart beneath my cheek and I lick again, this time sucking his nipple into my mouth. His hands tangle in my hair, holding me pressed against him. I bite him gently. He groans.

We've always been good together like this, Harry and I. From the first time we stumbled into bed together, pissed out of our minds after a Ministry gala celebrating, much to his chagrin, Harry's twenty-fifth birthday. We hadn't gone out of his flat for the next two days. Hadn't put on any bloody clothes, for that matter. We'd fucked on every possible surface in his tiny flat—my arse had been so sore I hadn't been able to sit properly for the rest of the week, and he'd sworn I'd chafed his prick.

"Draco," Harry says, his eyes half-closed, his head thrown back. My hands slide down his chest. I can feel his ribs beneath his muscles. He's too thin again; the idiot never eats properly unless I make him. Much as he may think differently, man cannot live on crisps and beer alone. I press my mouth to the dip of his sternum as my fingers tug at the buttons of his jeans, pulling the denim open. The cotton of his y-fronts is soft against my fingertips.

I want him. After everything, after all he's done, I still want him. I _hate_ that.

Anger surges through me, and I push him roughly. Harry falls to his side, sprawled across the floor, blinking up at me. I move over him on my hands and knees. We'll do this on _my_ terms. "Hands on the floor."

Harry lets his arms fall back. He takes a breath.

"Shut up," I say before he can speak, and he closes his mouth. I jerk his jeans off. His pants follow. I don't bother to be careful; he winces as the elastic catches on the head of his cock. I look at him, stretched out beneath me. The last time I saw Harry naked he'd had his prick stuffed up Smith's arse. My fingers tighten on his hips, and he shifts beneath me. He doesn't speak. He just watches me. It infuriates me that he understands.

Rolling to the side, I slide my shoes off, then push my jeans down, kicking them off with my pants. The air is cool against my aching prick, and when I crawl back over Harry, straddling his waist, my balls drag across his flushed skin. Harry licks his bottom lip, but he doesn't touch me. He knows. He waits, the head of his cock barely brushing the back of my thigh.

I rock forward, just enough to press my prick against his belly. Harry's breath catches. He doesn't move, but his fingers flex against the floor. "Why?" I murmur. My hair falls forward across my cheek. Harry stays silent. The wood of the floor is slick and cool against my palms as I lean over him, one hand on either side of his shoulders, the edge of the Aubusson at my fingertips. His hair is dark against the brown and beige swirls of hand-tufted wool. "Why that little arselicking fuckwit when you had me?"

Harry's chest presses against my thighs as he breathes in, long, ragged. He exhales slowly, his eyes fixed on me.

"Why?" I ask again, my mouth hovering over his, my voice soft. Harry's thick, black eyelashes flutter shut for a moment, and then he's looking back up at me again.

"Because you scare the shit out of me," he whispers. His words are a soft huff against my lips. "You always have."

I freeze. Harry stares up at me, eyes soft and dark in the shadows. "That's not an excuse," I say roughly after a moment.

Harry's knuckles brush my hip before his hand drops back to the floor. "It's not meant to be."

I close my eyes against the swoop of headlights through the sheers hanging over the bay window. Brakes squeak, an engine rumbles, drowning out the drunken shouts of disembarking Muggles, and the N31 bus continues down Kensington Church Street towards Notting Hill Gate.

"Draco," Harry says hesitantly. I open my eyes.

"I truly hate you sometimes," I say, and I despise the crack in my voice. Before he can answer, I'm kissing him again, angry and quick, and then I pull away, shifting so my knees are at his shoulders. I sit back on my thighs, holding my cock in one hand, the other resting on the side table. I press forward, rubbing the head of my prick against Harry's mouth.

Harry licks the tip, then sucks at it with an eager groan. My fingers clench at the base. He's good at this, knows exactly how to lap at the underside, how to slide my foreskin back with his tongue, how to press my prick to the ridged palate behind his teeth, making my thighs tremble as I push in further before pulling back, my cock slipping slick and red between his lips.

He's always liked the way I taste, always been eager for my cock in his mouth. He sucked me off once in the toilets at the Leaky Cauldron, on his knees on the filthy floor, his tongue lapping at my slit. I can still feel the cold tile against my back, the slick porcelain of the urinal under my palm. Finch-Fletchley had walked in on us and Harry hadn't stopped; he'd just sucked harder, pressing my hips against the wall and swallowing me so far down my knees had nearly buckled. I'd come hard, bent over him, my hands twisted in his shirt, and fast enough that he'd not been able to choke it all down and my prick had been smeared with come as it'd slid in and out of those perfect lips.

I moan softly at the memory, barely holding myself up as I fuck his throat. His mouth is wet; I can hear him gag when I press in too far, but when I shift, he catches my hips, holding me still, buried deep inside of his mouth. A shudder runs through me, and I can almost smell the stench of flat beer and old piss again. I run my fingers through his damp fringe, pushing it back from his forehead. His scar catches the lamplight, a pink-white flash on his golden skin.

When I pull away, my cock bobs wetly in front of Harry's face. "Don't," he protests, voice raw, leaning forward to catch it in his mouth again. I hush him, my fingers against his lips. He nips at them. "Christ, you're beautiful."

The compliment—or perhaps the sheer lust with which he's looking at me—makes my cheeks warm. I still won't forgive him though. Not yet.

A whispered spell, taught to me by my great-grandmother on a stormy night in my childhood, produces a fat paraffin candle, the kind we'd light at church to pray for my grandfather's soul. It smells faintly of sandalwood and rose attar, wick flickering orange-blue as it hovers beside us. Harry glances at it, then back at me. A small smile curves his mouth, and I frown at him as I slide off him. I sit cross-legged by his hip, my cock jutting up, my balls resting on one foot.

I fish my wand from the pocket of my discarded jeans and point it at Harry. "Incarcerous." Thin silver ropes catch his hands, binding them to the floor. "No touching until I say so."

"Kinky," Harry says. I pinch his thigh. Hard. It only makes his prick jump. Bastard. Another flick of my wand and a blindfold wraps around his eyes.

I drag the blunt curve of a fingernail over Harry's hipbone. "Any objections?"

Harry tests the ropes. He can move his wrists an inch or two. "No." He flattens his palms against the floor, expectantly.

I hesitate. My hand rests lightly on Harry's stomach. "You do remember your safeword, yes?" I feel foolish asking. Still. It _has_ been nearly a year. For me at least.

"Patronus," Harry says and he smiles again, softly this time, and I know he's given me control of this. Of us. A shiver runs through me. It's been too damn long. My anger fades, for a moment at least, and I'm stunned to realise I'm suddenly fucking terrified.

I raise my hand. It only trembles for a moment before I steady myself. I want to do this. I need to do this. I close my eyes and think of Harry in our bed with that sniveling cretin. My chest tightens. Bastard. With a twitch of my finger, the candle tips. A tiny amount of clear wax splatters across one of Harry's nipples and he hisses.

The wax cools on his skin, clouding and thickening, before I reach over and flick it off with a thumbnail. Faint pink blotches the brown aureole. I stroke it gently. "Does it hurt?"

Harry arches against the feather-light touch. "A little."

"Good." I pluck the candle from the air and run my palm over the small flame. It heats my skin for a moment, sends tingles sparking across my fingertips.

Harry tenses as I straddle his knees. I run one hand up his thigh, stopping to cup his balls. They're firm and tight in my fingers, the skin softly furred and dimpled against my thumb. His breath comes in sharp, short gasps. "I'm angry with you," I say quietly. I let a few drops of wax hit Harry's inner thigh. He bites his bottom lip as they roll across his skin, but he doesn't move.

"You should be," he says. "I was a fucking shit."

My fingers slide up the underside of his prick, nails light against the vein. His skin is hot and slick. "Tell me why you did it."

Harry hesitates. I grip his prick harder, tighter. His forehead furrows over the blindfold and his jaw tightens.

"Tell me," I say sharply. I tip the candle again, and a thick stream of wax strikes the skin above Harry's hipbone. He jerks beneath me and I move my hand from his cock. He groans and presses his shoulders into the floor. His cock bobs hard against his belly.

Harry breathes out. "We'd been arguing, you and me. You know that. Jesus, you can be such a shit when you want to be. And he was there. And he—" Harry rolls his head back, his jaw jutting up, his throat stretched long and gold in the flickering light. Shadows pool in the sharp angles of his clavicles. I can see him swallow. "He wanted me," he says finally.

My fingers tighten on the candle. "_I_ wanted you."

"You weren't acting like it." Harry turns his head away from me. His mouth trembles, then twists.

I know he's right. We'd been arguing so much. He'd wanted more from me. Wanted things I couldn't give him. A family. A home. I had my duty, one I'd been raised to accept. I'm the last Malfoy. The line can't die out with me. I'd never let it. I can't.

Harry'd never been able to fathom that. It didn't matter to him that he was the last of the Potters. That's not what family was, he'd insisted. Names don't matter. Lineage doesn't matter. He'd never quite understood that for me it all does.

I drag my fingertips through the cooling wax on his hip, smearing it across his stomach. It's thick and greasy and warm, and I can see the pink of Harry's skin as I leave fingerprints in the creamy, slick indents. The wax covers my hand, slips beneath my nails. I smooth my fingers down over the base of Harry's cock, and stroke my thumb up his shaft, pulling it back from his belly. It's heavy in my palm. Harry stills beneath me, then his legs shift, his breathing catches. I lower the candle, let a few more clear drops spatter just above the crisp tight curls. They roll into the dark hair. Harry's hips arch up as he groans.

"Please," he whispers, and he catches his lip between his teeth. His nipples are hard and pebbled; a faint sheen of sweat covers his chest and shoulders. He splays his fingers against the floor, pushing himself up ever so slightly. The silver chains bite into the skin at his wrists.

I peel away the wax on his hip; he gasps. It stings just a bit, I know, and I lean down and lick lightly at the pink skin. It tastes acrid, greasy. Harry shivers as the tip of my tongue traces along his hip. My hair catches on the head of his cock, and he bucks up, slamming into my teeth.

"Please," he says again, almost brokenly, and that's my undoing.

I blow out the candle and set it aside, hand trembling. A curl of smoke drifts up from the black wick, disappearing into the darkness above us; wax drips, pooling on the floor. I don't care. Instead, I Summon a phial of oil from the bath, grateful when my voice barely shakes, although I very nearly don't catch it as it zips past. I pour a small amount over my fingers, then reach behind me.

"We're going to fuck now, Harry," I choke out. I slide one finger into myself, and it's all I can do to keep from coming right then.

Harry presses a foot into the floor. His knee bumps my hand. "Christ, yes," he says. I ride my hand, pressing another finger in, then another, and Harry breathes out. "Let me see you."

It takes a moment for me to remember the spell, but the blindfold finally slithers off into the shadows beneath the sofa and Harry blinks up at me. His mouth parts; his tongue sweeps over his lip as he watches me with my fingers up my arse, stretching myself, my stiff cock bobbing against my belly. His fingers, hands still held back by the chains, brush against my knees. I groan and spread my thighs wider. I want him to see this. I need him to see this.

When I pull my hand away, we're both gasping for breath.

Harry's eyes are dark and bright. He presses one knee against my arse, shifting me closer. "Fuck my cock, Draco."

It's not a request I want to refuse.

I hold his prick, my eyes fixed on his as I slowly, carefully press back onto it. I slide slowly down, taking him into me, and I can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat. His lip trembles; his fingernails dig into the floor, leaving faint indentations in the gleaming beeswax over the worn planks. I barely have the head of his cock in me and already I'm stretched. I've missed this, missed having him inside of me, missed watching the want and need and lust flit across his face as I press further down.

And then he rocks up, lifts his hips off the floor, and to hell with taking care. I slam down, crying out as his cock fills my arse. I need this. I want this. Want him.

I catch myself on his stomach, one hand over the other, and we move together, pressing against each other roughly. My cock bounces between us; my balls slide over his skin. I spread my knees as wide as I can, not caring that they ache on the hard floor. All I want is to feel Harry inside of me, thrusting, fucking, taking me—

With one rough jerk, Harry rips free of the chains constraining his wrists. His hands catch my arse, dig into my skin, rubbing, pulling, tugging me into each quick shove of his cock.

"Oh, God," I moan, turned on by the magic it takes to break that binding spell, and I lean down to kiss him eagerly. I love Harry's magic. I've always loved it, nearly as much as I loved him. It's primal. Uncontrollable, almost. No one in the wizarding world is as powerful as Harry Potter, and the very fact that he would choose me—Merlin. How can I resist that?

Harry chuckles, deep, and in a moment I'm on my back and he's over me, his fringe in his eyes, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. I can't stop myself from licking it away. It's salty and musky and I brush my mouth against his damp hair, drag my fingertips over the slick, hot skin of his shoulders. Another rough thrust and I arch against him, flexing my toes, then digging my heel against the floor, the better to roll my hips into Harry's next press.

Our gasps fill the room. My arse aches, burns and there's nothing better than that, nothing I want more than to _feel_ Harry, to move against him, my flushed skin sliding over his, my cock pressed between us until there's nothing else in this world but him and me, and _God_, faster please, Christ—

Harry grabs my leg, pulls it over his hip and I cry out, a sharp keen as my head falls back, my throat exposed, and Harry's teeth scrape across my skin there as he slams into me again, lifting me off the floor with each quick shove of his hips.

I'm close, so close, and I want—oh, God, I don't know what I want. To touch him, to have him touch me. For this never to end. For everything to be the way it was, before. To come. I flail out with one hand, slapping my palm against the floor, and I barely notice the sting or the twist in my shoulder as Harry rocks into me again. The muscles in his arm clench and release; his eyes are glazed; his breath comes in short gasps.

"Harry," I say. "Harry, oh Harry—" My hand slides between us. My fingers curl around my prick. I jerk, roughly, matching his strokes, and all I can see are his eyes—God, so green, so green, so very Slytherin green—and the shock of messy black hair that falls into them. "My Harry—"

I tense and groan and catch his arm with one hand, digging my nails into his skin as my other hand tugs at my cock, and with a cry, toes curled into the fringe of the rug, I come hot and sticky over my fingers.

My heart thuds. I gasp raggedly, sucking in air that burns my lungs. My hand slows, smears come over heated, stretched foreskin. I can still feel Harry in me, his thrusts erratic as he groans against my cheek. He turns his head, and our mouths meet again. Desperate. Hungry.

"Come on me," I whisper against his lips, and Harry shudders, his shoulders tensing. He pulls out of me; I feel bereft until he straddles my hips, his cock in one hand, and I grab his thighs. "Yes." I smooth my palms over his skin. "Yes, like that, Harry. Please."

Harry's head falls back. His fingers pull his prick. I love the way they move across his reddened skin, love the way they pull back his foreskin so I can see his slick knob, wet with lube and pre-come. His thumb sweeps over the head and comes away damp.

"Please." I tug at his hips. I do this to him. Me. I'm the one he wants, the one who has in thrall the Boy Who Lived. There's no magic, no power quite like this. It takes my breath away. "Please, Harry. Now."

He groans and twists his palm down his shaft. "Draco—" He lurches forward, catches himself with one hand next to my shoulder. His cock slaps against my stomach. "Oh, Christ. Christ." One more quick tug and he comes, splattering over my belly, my chest, mixing with my own spunk. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull him into a long, deep kiss.

"Draco," Harry says, and he's collapsed on me now. I can barely breathe. He bites my lip, sucks it for a moment before he slides off me and pulls me up against his side as he grabs the nearest bit of clothing and wipes it haphazardly over my stomach. The gesture pleases me until I realise he's used Blaise's shirt. I've no idea how well a cleaning charm will work on silk. Brilliant. I suppose I'll have to twist one of the Manor elves' ears next Sunday dinner.

Harry tosses the shirt aside--_silk, you Philistine_, I want to cry but I know him well enough to recognise it's a lost cause that will earn me nothing but a blank stare—and he wraps his arms around me; I press my face into the curve of his neck. We lie silent for a long moment.

"I still haven't forgiven you," I murmur into his skin. "Just so you know."

Harry laughs softly and his fingertips trail down my spine. "I wouldn't ever assume." He flattens his palm against the small of my back. He'd held me this way nearly every night before we'd fallen apart, except when we'd fought, and even then I'd wake up to him tangled around me half the time. It'd disturbed me at first, Harry's need to touch and to be touched. Malfoys are not exactly demonstrative in a physical manner.

I brush his fringe out of his eyes and trace a knuckle across one brow. Harry closes his eyes as I drag my finger down the bridge of his nose and over his lip. He smiles against my fingertip, kisses it before turning his head to look at me. "I'm sorry. Zacharias...." He sighs. "Horrible mistake. Even Ron told me off for that. He said Zacharias was only interested in what I was, not who I am."

"Did he?" I raise up on one elbow. "For once the Weasel shows a modicum of sense."

Harry settles his hand on my hip. His thumb strokes tiny circles across my skin. "He thought I cocked up with you."

I press my lips together. "Now you're just tweaking me."

"No, really," Harry says, an amused lilt in his voice. "Ron made it rather clear I'd been a right shit to you and that you weren't—and I quote—a completely awful sod of a nancy ponce, even if he still thinks you'll probably try to hex me in my sleep one night."

"That sounds more like him." I slide my leg over Harry's. "I could, you realise. Hex you."

Harry snorts. "I fully expect you to."

I let him kiss me before I pull back. I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees. "We're not just falling back into this," I say finally. "Not after..." I look away and rub my palm over my kneecap.

"Yeah." Harry pushes himself up. He leans against the back of the armchair, cross-legged, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. His shoulder gleams in the lamplight. "I'd like another chance though."

It takes me a moment to answer. My chest is tight, my throat dry. "Why?"

Harry reaches out, but he drops his hand before he touches my face. I'm disappointed. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know." I can't look at him. I don't want to look at him.

"Come on, Draco," Harry says quietly. He pushes himself across the floor towards me, his thighs on either side of mine, and presses a knuckle to my chin, lifting it. Our eyes meet.

There's a rattle at the door, and it flies open with a crash, bouncing off the wall. Pansy stumbles in, Blaise draped over her shoulder. He's kissing the nape of her neck; they both laugh as she swats his hand away from her breast. And then Pansy draws up short, her eyes narrowing. She raises an eyebrow at me. "Well, well," she says, and Blaise lolls his head in our direction.

"Nice prick, Potter."

"Fuck off, Zabini," Harry says with a faint smile, and Blaise smirks at us both before Pansy tugs him towards the stairs. His hand slides up the back of her skirt, ruching it up. I catch a glimpse of lace knickers and pale white arse. Pansy's _good night, darling_ drifts back from the upstairs hall, suddenly cut off by a thud and a low, gasping moan. I roll my eyes and look back at Harry.

"That's what you'll have to put up with, you realise," I say.

His mouth twitches. "I think it's worth it." He curls his fingers around mine. They're thick and blunt at the tips. Very Harry. I stroke my thumb over his knuckle. "Draco," he says in a rush, "I love—"

I stop him with a kiss. "Don't." I'm not ready to hear that again. I can't. Not yet.

Harry nods. His hair falls into his eyes. "All right."

"One day, then another." I press my forehead to his. My fingers skim his jaw. I wonder what I'm letting myself into, wonder if I'll be hurt again, wonder if it matters. Harry's breath is warm against my mouth and I shiver. After all this, I still want him.

Harry cups my face in his hands. "All right," he says again, and my heart flips. I don't care if this is a horrible idea. I've missed him.

I swallow and touch his wrist, pulling his hand away, pressing my mouth to his palm. "Upstairs." The floor's hard and cold and I want my bed. I scoop up my wand and Summon Harry's glasses. He slips them on, blinking, and we stagger to our feet. Harry catches me as I sway forward.

"Careful," he says. His hands steady me, linger on my arms. I close my eyes and lean against him for a moment. He's solid. Harry. He'd always made me feel safe, until...

I look at him. "Fuck up this time," I say quietly, "and I'll saw your prick off with Pansy's nail file."

He nods, hiding a smile.

"I mean that," I snap.

Harry holds out his hand. "I know."

I curl my fingers around his. "You're still a bastard."

"Yes, I _know_." He starts up the stairs. "Is it too late to say happy birthday?"

"It'd be très gauche." I glance back at the clothes scattered across the floor. Sod it. They can wait until morning.

Harry stops and turns. Even though he's a step above me, we're still on eye level. He brushes my hair back from my cheek. Honestly, he's so bloody maudlin at times. "I hope it ended better than it started," he says softly.

"Somewhat." I turn my head into his touch. "Although I suppose you'll take credit for that too, yes?" At Harry's raised eyebrow, I snort. "Really, I'd say Pansy's more responsi—"

Harry shuts me up with a kiss. I grab his arms to keep from falling down the steps like a fool. When he pulls back, I'm breathless and he's a ridiculously smug expression on his face. Arsehole. We stumble down the hall, stopping every few feet to kiss against the wall. I can't seem to get enough of the way he tastes.

"I think I want to fuck you against the headboard." Harry drags his mouth over my shoulder. He ponders, his hand sliding down to cup my cock. I can't bite back my moan.

Part of me suspects I've lost my mind. Again. I've no idea if this is going to work. I'm still not certain we want the same things, Harry and I. I don't really care at the moment, not when Harry has me pressed against my bedroom door, kissing me until I rut up against him, hard as a fucking rock. This? This part of a relationship we've always been bloody brilliant at.

And that, I think, scrabbling desperately behind me for the doorknob as Harry's fingers wrap around me, is more than enough.

For now, at least.

I close the door behind us with a laugh.


End file.
